He handed it over and Gibson shone the light over each letter, going slowly and studying the marks thoroughly. They were done in block lettering, which made it harder, but since there were three words repeated, it also made it easier.
“I think it was written by two different people,” she concluded, handing him back the flashlight.
He stepped forward and shone the light over the letters. “Really? I’m no handwriting expert, but those who are usually examine cursive writing, not block letters.”
“True, but handwriting is handwriting. Take the three words I, do, and as. They obviously appear in the first and second half of the message. Take a look at how the d is formed in both, and look at how the a and s are done. Different arcs and upward and downward strokes, varied stopping points. The flourish on the first d is not seen in the second d. The first s is smooth, the second one choppy, as though the person wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Even the I’s are different. The height is dissimilar and the top caps are not close. The penmanship is totally different.”
“How do you know so much about handwriting analysis?”
“Like I said, I started out as a forensics tech. And with my job now I review thousands of documents online and compare signatures and other handwriting all the time. But I would suggest you get your experts out here to do their own exam. My opinion wouldn’t count for squat in court.”
“But it does with me.”
She gave him a look. “So does that mean I’m off the suspect list?”
“I think we can safely say that.”
Gibson scrutinized the space where Langhorne’s body had been as they passed by it.
Had Clarisse killed the man? If so, why involve her? Because she was afraid? She didn’t sound afraid. Because she wanted something? Yes, that was the far more likely answer.
Langhorne had probably stolen a ton of money from the mob. Gibson wasn’t really speculating on that. For how else could he have bought this place? Did that represent all of the money he’d taken? If not, where was the rest? But if Clarisse had done the deed, had she also written the phrase on the wall? And taken the pains to make it seem like two people had done it? She seemed like just the sort of person who would sweat those kinds of details. But what would have been the point of that deception? Or maybe she was working with another person.
Out in the daylight, Sullivan turned to her. “Thanks for coming out and thanks for the ‘expert’ analysis back there.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for taking me off the suspect list. I’ll make those calls and get back to you.”
She paused and that made Sullivan hike his eyebrows and say, “Yes?”
“So how did a mob accountant end up here under an assumed name?”
“We’re looking into it.”
“Did he have a family?”
“Yes, wife and two kids.”
Part of Gibson felt badly for doing this dog-and-pony show with Sullivan, asking him questions she already knew the answers to. But the other part of her, the professional part, knew it was necessary.
“Any idea where they are now?”
“None,” he said.
“You would think a mob accountant, after turning on his employer, would be put into Witness Protection.”
“I was thinking the same thing. In fact, I have a meeting with a representative of the US Marshals Service in Norfolk this afternoon. Want to tag along?”
Gibson was surprised by this offer and her expression showed it. “I would love to tag along.”
“We have time to grab something to eat, if you want.”
“In for a dime, Detective Sullivan.”
“Just make it Will, Mickey.”
“I’ll follow you over.”
They got into their vehicles and drove off. As they passed the mailbox, Gibson shuddered with her guilty knowledge of having dusted the metal and come away with Langhorne’s true identity right under the nose of her new bestie, Will Sullivan.
Chapter 19
Clarisse studied the numbers on the screen.
Five hundred thousand dollars, not a penny more or less, had just landed at its final destination after taking an untraceable digital whirlybird tour of financial accounts and money havens around the world.
She shaved off 30 percent and catapulted that amount into Angie’s pocketbook.
The message that came back from the big bad little senator was full of quite colorful language and threats and other things, none of which he had a chance to actually do, since he would never find either of them.
And in one week’s time she would send another demand to the senator, this time for an even million dollars with a pledge that such would be the last request for compensation. And it would be. She was always fair on that. And Angie would get another three hundred grand. A girl could have fun pretty much anyplace with that level of funding, tax-free as it was.
She glanced at her reflection in the little vanity mirror set next to her twin computers.
She was a blonde once more. She didn’t know why she liked that particular color so much. It seemed to her to represent light and transparency when she was anything but. But maybe that was the explanation for her affinity for light hair. Her physical appearance, on its face, was itself deceiving.
She opened her MICKEY GIBSON notebook and read over some notes she had jotted down.
Their last conversation had been intriguing. Gibson had wanted to back out and the reason was clear.
She was fearful that something would happen to her and leave her kids in the lurch. Or that working with her could place them in danger.
She could understand that. From a normal person. Yet children got screwed over every day by their parents and lots of other people. And no one apparently gave a damn unless they were rich or famous or powerful, or all three. That was just her little old opinion, but what did she know.
I only know myself. But I know myself really, really well.
She had deployed the standard “the next murder is coming” warning to entice Gibson to keep going, but she also believed it to be true. She had an idea who had killed Langhorne, perhaps more than an idea. And if she was right, she could use the help. Her job was to remain in the background moving her chess pieces around. And Gibson was her queen on the front lines, or at least she hoped the woman had the potential to become such a powerful tool.
I’ve already filled up multiple notebooks on her. I hope it’s going to be worth it.
Her fingers skimmed over the computer keys as she sent NSA-level encrypted messages, searched for information on people and things she needed to understand better, and, finally, focused on a picture she had brought up on the screen.
“Wilson Sullivan, of the Virginia State Police,” she read off.
He was good-looking in a rugged way that appealed to some women but not her. Steady career in law enforcement. He was not spectacular; he was above average. He might be a Goldilocks “just right” as an unwitting if useful tool for her, working through Gibson, of course.
As a matter of principle, she absolutely refused to work directly with the police. They were not dependable, she had found. And they lied. A lot.
Google Maps showed her that Sullivan lived in a two-story town house with a deck on the back, in a Norfolk suburb that looked like a thousand other such neighborhoods. A million other such homes, a billion other such people.
That could have been me if something called “my life” had not intervened. But then, existence itself is a trade-off.